


However Long the Night

by sariagray



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:39:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariagray/pseuds/sariagray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the first Toclafane attack, Torchwood begins a plan to save the world. That plan lies dormant until they discover that Harold Saxon is holding both Jack and the Doctor; Ianto decides to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	However Long the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by analineblue. The title comes from an African proverb: _However long the night, the dawn will break._

Ianto paced Roald Dahl Plass.

The black shirt he wore was pulled tight over his torso, but the material was thick, weighted, made of something not yet approved for civilian use (and it wouldn’t be for at least another century, according to the notes he’d found in the cross-referenced file, sometime after the Wars – battles he knew he wouldn’t be alive to fight). His trousers were black-and-grey camouflage, standard-issue fatigues, and the combat boots were half a size too big. The cap fit him well enough, though.

It had taken weeks to acquire the outfit, piece by piece, as well as the information they’d needed to formulate their plan. Owen was supposed to have gone originally, during the initial stages when their only goal was to stop Harold Saxon, but Owen was dead.

It hadn’t even been the Toclafane that’d killed him in the end. He’d been out collecting food to bring back to their base in the Hub when he’d been ambushed; murdered by a group of humans, starved and rabid as a pack of wild dogs in the desert, for a box of meager rations.

A week later, Toshiko had gone on a run for simple medical supplies, things that they could use without Owen’s extensive knowledge of the alien healing implements that only he’d been able to manage. They still had no idea what happened to her, if she was even dead. She had simply vanished without a trace.

Rhys went out in her stead, protesting that such a simple excursion was something that he was perfectly capable of handling, thank you, and no one in the government was looking for _him_. He made it back in one piece, a little shaken, with a box of supplies and a story from the trenches.

“I met this bloke,” he’d said as he set about unpacking the box. “He was there getting medicine for his wife. She’s pregnant. Having to bring a baby into a world like this, can you imagine? He talked about a woman, Martha, he’d said. This woman’s walking all over the world, telling people about this Doctor. Bloke said the Doctor’s up there on that ship and he’s going to save us all. Didn’t your Jack take off with someone called the Doctor? Do you think it’s the same one?”

The plan, which had previously been abandoned in favor of sheer survival and conserving their limited resources, swung back into full force.

Just that morning, Gwen had stood in front of Ianto and adjusted his cap with tears in her eyes. Ianto thought Jack would’ve appreciated the symbolism, the whole air of ‘sending the boys off to war.’

"We don't even know if he's there," Gwen worried. Rhys put an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close.

Ianto nodded. "You're right, but all evidence indicates that he is. I have to try. And even if he isn't, this is what he'd do; help the Doctor."

"’What would Jack do?’ then, aye?" Rhys asked, admiration and amusement in his voice.

"Yep,” Ianto smirked. “We're thinking of making bracelets."

Rhys stepped forward and embraced Ianto, face suddenly stoic and still as a marble statue, his mouth a grim line.

“Good luck, mate,” he whispered.

As Rhys backed away, Gwen flung herself into his arms.

“You don’t have to do this,” she’d pleaded. “Please…I – I can’t lose you, too.”

“Of course I have to,” Ianto had responded, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You know I do. I’ll be fine. Mind Myfanwy while I’m gone, yeah? If she’s stroppy when Jack and I come back, it’s decaf for a month.”

Gwen had given him a weak, watery laugh and kissed his cheek. “Be safe, love.”

“You, too. Take care of each other.”

Now, he’d been standing outside, waiting, for the better part of an hour. Ianto struck a match and lit a cigarette. Food and water were scarce, precious commodities – had been for quite some time – but cigarettes were prevalent and cheap (especially when scavenged from abandoned shops and petrol stations). Gwen had scowled at him when he retrieved his first pack, rekindling a habit that had died with the hundreds of victims of Canary Wharf (he could chart his smoking with the rise and fall of world-wide disaster, a pretty parabola of addiction), but she hadn't uttered a word against it.

He leaned against the railing along the pier and looked out at the bay, his hand dangling over the side. Even without boats, the bay looked the same. The water didn't know that the world was ending, so hadn't yet changed her shape and the gulls still dove for their dinner. There were clouds rolling in from the horizon, big storm clouds that promised torrential rain and hail and wind. It'd probably cut out what little spark of electricity they had left. With no one to officially man the power stations (or any other service), they’d been thrust back into the Dark Ages. No matter; it would all be over soon.

It had been the little things that seemed to get to him the most. They’d had to cut each other’s hair, Gwen nervously giggling until Rhys gave up and took the clippers from her. Clothing had been fetched from flats, quickly, under cover of darkness. For a week, they’d worried about the logistics of managing the weevil population until they realized that the Toclafane were indiscriminate killers; it was telling that Ianto actually _mourned_ the violent creatures.

He took another drag of his cigarette and let his eyes sweep across the water. There, in the distance, was Flat Holm - deserted now, empty but for the old warhead and a quiet, dilapidated facility.

After returning from the treacherous Himalayas and the initial attack of the Toclafane, Ianto had revealed the secret of Flat Holm’s purpose to the team and it was unanimously decided to bring them into the Hub; supply trips and check-ins to the island were far too dangerous to continue undertaking on a weekly basis. They'd hired Frank Harris, an old sea dog that Jack had seemed to trust implicitly, to command a ferry to bring the residents and staff over to the dock.

He and Owen had stood in cover. Owen had supplies ready for the more medically unstable patients, pacing and muttering to himself about the cold. When the ferry made it halfway across the bay, a group of Toclafane attacked. No one survived.

He liked to think that it had been quick, that no one had suffered.

Ianto had instructed Gwen and Rhys to relocate to the facility if he didn’t return or send word in three months’ time. It would be safer there if he got himself captured and revealed the position of the Hub. Saxon might not think to investigate the island further, all its occupants eradicated. It had plenty of non-perishable food and medical supplies to last two people a good long while, and its lockdown procedures were almost as good as the Hub’s. It wasn't safe, though. Nowhere was safe.

The sun was rising higher over the horizon, burning off the night's mist. Ianto stubbed out his cigarette and reached for another. As he put it to his lips, he could feel eyes on the back of his head, unwavering. He lit his cigarette anyway, feeling his muscles tense as the heavy clunk of booted footsteps approached.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the shape of a man settle next to him. The warmth radiating off of the newcomer was pronounced in the chill morning air.

"Looks to be an oncoming storm," the man said, staring out at the horizon.

"They say it'll be the destroyer of worlds," Ianto responded and then smiled grimly, turning towards the man with his arm outstretched. "Ianto Jones."

The man smiled back and gave a firm handshake. "Lieutenant Albert Mead, UNIT. Let's move this to the transport vehicle, shall we?"

Ianto nodded and followed the soldier to a dark military Jeep topped in canvass and large enough to fit a small unit of five or six and their weapons. Ianto took a final drag of his cigarette and the lieutenant glanced back at him.

"Those'll kill ya, you know."

Shrugging, Ianto tossed the butt on the ground and stepped on it. "If nothing else gets me first."

The lieutenant frowned and shook his head. He was older than Ianto by a good decade, with dark hair and laugh lines around his eyes.

"Look, I’m familiar with Torchwood standard operating procedure; we're not treating this as some kamikaze mission, got it?"

Ianto nodded.

"Good. Now get in the back and watch your step."

Lieutenant Mead lifted a canvass flap and Ianto climbed inside. It was thickly dark; the only light streamed in from a few chinks in the heavy cloth. It took a moment for Ianto's eyes to adjust. When they finally did, he found a clear space on top of a crate across from two men and a woman, all of them close to his age. Lieutenant Mead climbed in after him and sat down next to the woman.

"Ianto Jones, this is my team. Privates Barry Williams, Jamie Boland, and Allison Man. Team, this is Ianto Jones of Torchwood."

They all nodded at him in greeting, so Ianto nodded back.

"Now," the lieutenant continued, "Ianto's been in contact with Lethbridge-Stewart. It has come to all of our attention that Harold Saxon - alias the Master - has captivity of both the Doctor and the current head of Torchwood, one Captain Jack Harkness. He has also captured a family of civilians. It is our mission to infiltrate this operation, collect intel, and liberate all hostages."

"Excuse me, sir," the woman, Allison, interrupted. She tucked a dark strand of hair behind her ears in a way that reminded Ianto, painfully, of Toshiko. "Isn't it Torchwood policy to apprehend the Doctor on sight?"

Lieutenant Mead nodded once at Ianto, offering him permission to field the question. Ianto cleared his throat.

"It's true that Torchwood's initial charter proclaimed the Doctor an enemy of the British Empire. He and anyone traveling with him were to be captured and held prisoner. However, after his assistance during the Battle of Canary Wharf, this was dissolved and the charter was amended to state that Torchwood personnel are to offer any support that the Doctor may require. Further, the current head of the Torchwood Institute was a former companion of the Doctor."

Barry, the man on the right with sandy blonde hair and an eager smirk, gave a low whistle. Allison leaned over and lightly smacked his arm, the camaraderie between them apparent. She turned and nodded at Ianto, apparently appeased by his answer.

The Jeep began to rumble and vibrate beneath them as they drove off to London.

"We're all on the same side," the lieutenant continued. "Officially, we've gone rogue from UNIT’s current stance and so we're undercover until I say otherwise. Allison, you'll be stationed with Ianto on a switch shift for the boiler room. This is where we believe Captain Harkness to be located. Barry and Jamie will be with me on the bridge where the Doctor is thought to be held. Under no circumstances should any of you act without my orders. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," they all murmured. Ianto nodded.

"Ianto and I will try to meet occasionally to exchange information. Locations will vary. Boland, give Ianto the full sitrep."

"The Master, disguised as Prime Minister Harold Saxon, has captured the Doctor, three-fifths of the Jones family, and Captain Harkness. They are all considered to be at great risk. The current companion of the Doctor, one Martha Jones, has escaped and is on a mission by the Doctor's orders. We are not to interfere with this mission unless absolutely necessary. Reports vary, but there has been word that the Doctor is being kept in either a cage or a tent. The members of the Jones family are currently being utilized as slaves. Captain Harkness is bound in chains in the boiler room. None of our people have been able to infiltrate his location, but we have it on good authority that the Master visits him almost daily."

Ianto winced. "And the Toclafane?"

Jamie sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. "It seems that they're a creation of the Master and do his bidding, but we have yet to determine their origins or the nature of their connection to him. Their primary purpose is to destroy at his will. UNIT personnel currently have blanket protection, until the Master says otherwise. As an agency, we've sworn allegiance and we are to defer to him in public."

Lieutenant Mead turned to Ianto. "It took a lot of work to get you stationed in that boiler room. I trust you and your Captain not to blow our cover."

"Yes, sir," Ianto nodded.

"Good. When we arrive on the Valiant, we'll be oriented to our positions and given weapons. There's a three day layover period where we train and the soldiers we relieve prepare to return to headquarters for leave. Any questions?"

Ianto shook his head and settled more comfortably onto his appropriated crate. A silence fell over them all as the Jeep rattled and bumped over rough, unused roadways. He couldn't see outside, but the lack of noise and the fact that the Jeep hadn't once slowed its steady speed indicated that the roads were completely devoid of traffic.

"We're about three hours from base," the lieutenant spoke, interrupting their self-imposed silence. "We'll eat when we arrive, but until then we've got a few energy bars and bottled water."

He looked directly at Ianto as he spoke, his eyes kind and encouraging. It was true that Ianto hadn't eaten much during the past few months, just the rations that the team had been able to scrounge up and whatever meals Rhys could cook with a hot pot and tinned goods that had been stashed away long before any of them had been born. It was the price they all paid for living under the radar. He was sure he looked gaunt, the pale skin of his face stretched taut over his cheekbones and his eyes sunken, but he hadn't bothered to look in a mirror for a while.

His stomach turned and roiled with nerves, but he nodded and accepted the snack. It tasted of artificially sweetened cardboard, gritty and partially melted on the ends. Nevertheless, he felt better after he'd eaten it.

"Get some rest if you want," the lieutenant offered. "We've still got a ways to go."

It was tempting, even if the rollicking ride and the uncomfortable surfaces created a space not conducive to sleep.

He'd spent most of the previous night reassuring Gwen and giving Rhys access to the more secure environments of the Hub. No question about it; the man was Torchwood now. Ianto'd shown the two of them how to care for Myfanwy and Janet, too, and implored them to keep the place clean, as though he were only leaving for a week’s vacation. It was an attempt to lighten the funereal mood, and while it didn’t exactly work, he could see in Gwen’s eyes that she appreciated the lie.

Gwen had spent the time oscillating between determined, serious focus and emotional wreckage. Ianto bore it all in stride, silently grateful for the combination of worry and leadership. Either way, it had kept him up part of the night and he’d spent most of his remaining hours reviewing each aspect of the plan and considering every possible outcome.

Still, he couldn't rest now. Borne of either self-preservation or paranoia (and in Torchwood, both went hand-in-hand), he didn't fully trust anyone outside of their tight-knit circle. UNIT, as a whole, hadn't exactly proven loyal to their cause or their proud allegiance to the Doctor, and even if Jack seemed to trust the former brigadier, these were uncertain times.

"I'm fine, sir," he said and smiled. "Thank you."

"Suit yourself," the lieutenant shrugged.

No one slept during the whole trip.

* * *

  
When they arrived, UNIT headquarters was a bustle of activity. It was a startling sight after the silence of the city streets and the completely barren landscape by the bay. There were carts and forklifts transporting people and goods back and forth over the tarmac. A platoon of new recruits, most likely in basic training, was in the midst of calisthenics next to an intricate obstacle course. In front of a hangar, a group of soldiers stood at ease, conversing with a high-ranking official. There were no Toclafane in sight, and no one cast any furtive glances up at the clear sky.

After months of witnessing the degradation of human behavior, Ianto found the atmosphere foreign and terrifying.

"We'll go straight to the mess for lunch," Lieutenant Mead said as he disembarked and joined his team. "We'll leave on the shuttle at 1300 hours."

The mess hall was half a kilometer away and they walked, relishing in the ability to stretch their stiff legs after spending so many hours in cramped quarters. The sun was warm on Ianto’s skin, almost painfully so after being kept underground for so long, but its foreignness was exciting. The cafeteria, when they arrived, was just as busy as the tarmac. It was loud, too, filled with all ranks and titles catching a quick afternoon meal.

As they stood in line, Lieutenant Mead placed his hand on Ianto's shoulder.

"It may not be necessary," he said softly, but clear enough so that the team could hear, "but I need a name for you, something not on UNIT's radar. Or the Master's, for that matter."

"Dylan Weaver."

"Good. No matter what, you do not answer to Ianto. Ianto Jones died back in Cardiff, weeks ago, according to official reports. I'll put your name down on the roster when we check in, Private Weaver."

Ianto and his new team nodded and shuffled forward with the line.

Despite the quality of the fare (standard armed forces meals, where one dish was entirely indistinguishable from another), Ianto ate happily. The food was warm and comparably flavorful, and the texture was much more appealing than the stale mush he'd grown accustomed to. There was meat and veg and even a bit of unidentifiable dessert with the vaguest hint of chocolate.

"Hey, kid," Allison said, smiling, her fork halfway to her mouth. "Slow down. You can't look like you aren't used to this. No one likes canteen food."

"Sorry," Ianto murmured and settled his own fork on the tray. "Any chance of a cup of coffee here?"

She shrugged. "It's complete shit, but sure. Over there."

She pointed and Ianto followed the line of her outstretched hand to a battered urn, completely ignored on a covered side table. He grinned. It'd been almost two months since the last of the Hub’s stock had run out; when he wasn't dreaming about Jack or panting through blood-and-metal nightmares, Ianto had dreamed about coffee.

The stuff that drained from the spigot was thick. It smelled stale and acidic, and was certainly cooler than it should have been, but it was _coffee_. He took a sip of the black liquid, bitter and burnt, and swallowed despite his immediate desire to spit it out. Next to the urn there was a container of cream and a cup with packets of sugar. Resigned, he used as much of them as he could manage without making himself sick.

When he sat back down, Barry raised both of his eyebrows in shock. “ _No one_ drinks the coffee.”

“Desperate times,” Ianto intoned before taking another sip. It was revolting, but he’d make due.

* * *

  
The shuttle, a spacious EC145 military range helicopter, was easy enough to embark. Lieutenant Mead simply gave the soldier standing guard a formal list of names and ranks along with the positions each of the team would be replacing.

“We will board the Valiant at approximately 1345 hours,” the pilot announced into their headphones right before takeoff.

Ianto closed his eyes briefly as they rose from the ground. When he opened them again, Allison was smiling at him.

“First time?” she mouthed. Ianto nodded and smiled back before looking out the window.

If it wasn’t for the nerves in his stomach and the knowledge of the decimation that had taken place down below, Ianto would’ve found the view breathtaking.

* * *

  
They were greeted by a host of UNIT officials and armed soldiers, and ushered quickly from the airstrip into the ship itself. It was expansive, a fully staffed and functional base in the sky. Its lines were gorgeously simplistic, and certain areas of the interior still smelled of fresh paint. He wondered, briefly, if the Master had specifically redecorated.

Ianto’s team met up with two other groups of fresh UNIT members, all stoic expressions and red caps hiding their enthusiasms and worries, that had been sent to replace those already on board. Those leaving would be debriefed and sent back to headquarters before taking up another deployment in a few months’ time.

“You’re on the third rotation,” a lieutenant announced. “These will be your barracks, women in the room on the left, men on the right. Settle your things and then regroup here at 1415 hours for the first stage of orientation.”

Jamie took a bed next to Ianto and Barry chose one across the aisle. They put their satchels on top of the simple cots and unpacked. None of them had brought much, so the task went quickly.

Orientation was a simple affair; his station in the highly-secure boiler room required that Ianto only memorize directions to and from the barracks, the cafeteria, the bridge, and the boiler room itself. Strategically, it was foolish and it certainly didn’t benefit Ianto any, but it seemed that the Master was quite paranoid. Besides, back when their plan was a new thing, exhilarating and hopeful, Toshiko had gotten her hands on a copy of an initial sketch of the Valiant. It’d been rough, merely an outline with sections marked off in teal monochrome, but it had indicated enough to plot a few drastic escape routes should they be needed. He had it memorized.

There were also drills to learn, and emergency protocols, but after years with Torchwood, Ianto found them all juvenilely unsophisticated and painless to remember.

As he lay in his cot that evening, he thought about how Gwen and Rhys might be coping back home. There had been no way to implement regular, secure communication during the mission, so all they had was trust in each other’s instincts. They would have a higher ratio of food with him gone and medical supplies, too. He wondered if they were grateful.

He took a deep breath and reminded himself that Jack was close, so close, and they’d both be home soon.

* * *

  
After three days of training and countless briefings, Ianto and Allison had their first shift of guard duty. Ianto tugged at his black shirt and adjusted his cap nervously, wishing vehemently for a waistcoat and tie and feeling a bit like he was getting ready to go on a date. The gun that had been handed to him was clunky and sensitive, far too big to be of any real use (and it wasn’t like it would do any more permanent damage to Jack than a stun gun would).

Allison greeted him in the hallway with a small smile and they proceeded together, silently, into the boiler room. Two guards were stationed, standing at attention. They all nodded to each other and the guards departed.

Ianto’s breath caught at the sight of Jack, chained and with his head bowed Christ-like, as though he were dying for their sins. Then again, maybe he was. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Allison shoot him a look. Ianto didn’t bother to turn his head, not caring if either anxiety or sympathy showed in her eyes.

“Changing of the guard already?” Jack said to the floor, his voice gravelly with disuse.

Taking her position on Jack’s left side, Allison nodded toward Ianto. He stepped up onto the metal grating and crossed behind Jack, placing his hands on the tense shoulders. They tightened even further at the contact and Jack tried to turn his head to see behind him, despite Ianto’s gentle massage.

“Wha –”

“Next time, sir, the team would appreciate if you left us a number where you can be reached.”

Jack froze completely, his body stiff.

“Ianto…” he breathed, a sigh like one he might utter in his sleep.

Ianto ducked beneath Jack’s outstretched arm and faced him, lightly covering Jack’s mouth with his hand. “Here, I’m Dylan. Private Weaver, to you. This is Private Allison Man. We’re here with a small group of –“

Jack shook off Ianto’s hand. “Leave. Ianto, you have to _leave_. Right now. Please.” His eyes were wide with panic and he looked around the room as if he expected a whole host of armed soldiers to jump out and shoot him on the spot.

Ianto shook his head. “Gwen would kill me if I came back without you.”

“Gwen? She’s – she’s okay? And the rest – Owen, Toshiko? Are they – ?”

“Owen died,” Ianto said bitterly. “Tosh vanished while on a medical supply run. We still haven’t found a body.”

Jack shut his eyes. His body shook slightly and his teeth dug into his lower lip, worrying it. When he opened his eyes again, they were wet and glassy.

“Oh, Jack,” Ianto whispered. “What’ve they done to you?”

He placed a hand against Jack’s cheek. Jack gasped and nuzzled into the contact. He turned his head to press his lips to Ianto’s palm, lightly, not even firm enough to be considered a chaste kiss.

“I’m here. We’ll get you out, I promise.”

“Yah – Dylan!” Allison whispered harshly. “Someone’s coming.”

Ianto quickly stepped to Jack’s right and assumed the same position Allison had taken, gun at the ready against the shoulder, feet planted close together, stoic mask firmly in place.

He was surprised to see a suited man practically dance in, followed by a small entourage of UNIT soldiers. The man looked positively gleeful, a manic light glowing in his eyes as he shimmied over.

“Good evening, Freak! How would you like to die today?”

Ianto bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. He tried to focus on the facts waltzing in front of him and how they slotted into the plan. The man was most likely the Master, there were four – no, five – soldiers in the room, all armed. The Master had a device like the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver. He and Allison were no match.

The Master caught his eye and then looked back at Jack. “Ah, new guards! We’ll have to make it interesting, then. Let’s try exsanguination.” He glanced back at Ianto. “It’s one of my personal favorites. He writhes so beautifully. Knife!” He held up a hand and one of the soldiers placed the handle of a curved blade against his palm.

“Now,” he continued. “I want you both to watch. It’s really a wonderful sight and I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

Ianto turned and looked at Jack. There was no fear in his eyes, no pain, only apology. Ianto’s fingers clenched around the butt of his gun until they began to lose feeling, going white with blood loss.

“Tilt your head back,” the Master muttered, his tone almost affectionate. And then he gracefully sliced across Jack’s throat.

Ianto watched as the blood gushed from the carotid artery, staining Jack’s shirt red, and resisted the urge to press a hand to his own throat. The light in Jack’s eyes slowly faded, but he didn’t struggle until the final death throes were out of his control. All of the muscles in Ianto’s body were taut, ready to pounce, but the knowledge that he couldn’t act overrode his instincts. He’d once been a master of compartmentalization, but this brought him close to the breaking point and it was all he could do to control his breathing.

The Master frowned. “Huh. He’s usually more thrashy than that. No matter, you’ll be here tomorrow night, too. Welcome to the Valiant!”

With that, the Master turned and stormed away, his entourage following close on his heels. As soon as he disappeared, Ianto fled to Jack’s side.

“What’re you doing?” Allison hissed.

Ianto nodded and walked around to stand behind Jack, resting his head on Jack’s shoulder and snaking his arms around his waist.

“He’ll come back,” Ianto murmured when he caught her curious stare. “He hates waking up alone.”

He stood there as the minutes ticked away like hours. His shoulders and neck were sore, but he didn’t move. Finally, Jack took in a ragged gasp of air, his arms flailing and rattling their chains as he got his bearings. Ianto felt Jack relax against him.

“You’re really here,” Jack said after a long moment of silence. “I thought I dreamed you.”

“Not a dream, sir,” Ianto smiled and stepped out from behind him.

“You look good. That cap suits you.” Jack smiled flirtatiously; Ianto winced. “Remind me to take you out more when we get back.”

Ianto laughed – a hollow, broken sound. “We’re working on a way to get you and the Doctor out of here. I just have to wait for a signal from our Lieutenant and then we’ll all escape.”

Jack nodded, but Ianto could see resignation clouding his listless eyes.

When the time came for their replacements to arrive, Ianto pressed a quick kiss to Jack’s lips. “Tomorrow, sir.”

As soon as they got to the hallway which housed their rooms, Allison wrapped her arms around Ianto and steadied him as he shook and gagged. She didn’t say a word, didn’t ask a single question, but simply held him in place.

Ianto spent the next week and a half watching Jack die (he’d kept a list - drowning, burning, strangulation, exsanguination, poison, hypothermia, gunshot, electric shock, and crushing) without being able to do a thing about it.

* * *

  
As soon as they took their places at Jack’s side for their tenth rotation, the Master barged in with a full platoon of soldiers.

“Seize them!” he cried, his face contorted even as his eyes danced. “Bring them to the bridge. Take the freak, too.”

Before Ianto could even react, strong hands twisted his gun away and grasped his arms. He was dragged forward, struggling all the way. A quick glance at Allison indicated that she was being treated just as roughly and protesting with just as much vehemence. He could feel Jack’s eyes on him, but couldn’t bear to look.

The bridge was packed with soldiers, a small group of three civilians in anachronistic servants’ uniforms, and a woman in a cocktail dress. Ianto assumed that the Doctor would be there (the Master didn't seem like the type to waste an opportunity to gloat), but he couldn't see from his position. They were all circled around something. Ianto and Allison were dragged to the center of that circle and thrown down on their knees, their hands lifted to the back of their heads execution style. Ianto hazarded a look to his left. Lieutenant Mead, Jamie, and Barry were all in similar positions.

“Well, well, well,” the Master said, pacing in front of them. “It seems my ship has been infiltrated by scum. Private Williams, I appreciate the information you’ve given us. You will be rewarded for your efforts.”

“Than –“

There was a buzzing noise, though Ianto couldn’t see what caused it from his current angle, and Barry slumped forward. “As I was saying, you will be rewarded with the first death! Congratulations!” The Master began to clap and looked around, bemused, at the soldiers. “Come on, give the boy a hand, folks!”

There was a smattering of applause, some individuals more enthusiastic in their accolades than others.

“Good, good. Now, the rest of the lot. First, we shoot the lieutenant!”

There was the ringing clap of a gunshot and Lieutenant Mead crumpled with a scream.

“Oh, I love it when they scream like that! Gives me gooseflesh. Well done, Lieutenant! Now how about Private Boland?”

Another shot and the man gasped. He didn’t die right away, instead muttering something unintelligible as the blood soaked his hair. His death was slow, painful and gurgling like he was sinking into mud.

“What a drama queen. Now, the lovely Private Man. Such a pretty girl. Shoot her!”

Ianto held his breath against the accumulating sharp metallic scent of blood until he could sense her presence fall away from beside him. He was grateful that she died quickly, too fast to even utter a sound louder than a gasp of surprise.

He felt a wet warmth gradually seep in through his fatigues, breaking past the cloth barrier to moisten his calf. Cringing, he tried to shift away, but the guard standing at his back kept him from moving.

“So polite, so ladylike,” the Master was saying. “An example to us all. And now, could someone please bring the good Captain Freak forward? Ah, yes. Hello, Freak. I’ve done some research, and it seems that this man is very important to you. One of your precious little team. I think I’ll carve him up first, watch you squirm. Would you like that?”

Jack stared at the Master, his mouth clenched into a firm line.

“I asked you a question, Freak! I expect an answer!”

Jack shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. He’s nothing.”

“Nothing? I don’t believe you. You’re very devoted to your little sycophants.”

“This man,” Jack laughed resentfully, shaking his head. “This man has been nothing but a thorn in my side. He’s betrayed me twice in less than a year. Honestly? You’d be doing me a favor.”

Ianto stared at Jack’s face, his own contorting, and saw beneath the anger. He spat like a viper. “You’re a fucking bastard, Harkness. You deserved it every time.”

The Master yowled in frustration and stomped his foot like a petulant child. “You’re no fun anymore, you know that? Fine, just shoot the boy.”

There was a gunshot, and anguish writ upon Jack’s face as he cried out Ianto’s name, and then….

* * *

  
He floated in a sea of sticky black that clung to him, beneath a sky of black, with black stars and a black moon. There was a cry of grief, constant and muffled, stretching over a great distance. He was black, too, filled to the brim with a darkness that gnawed at his organs and made his eyes blurry.

It was warm, and cold, and so wet that he was dry and air was moist. Time didn’t exist, except when it was steadily marked by the occasional whisper of “I’ll fix this, I promise. Come back to me.” He was able to predict the whisper, but he couldn’t recollect what time _was_ , had no idea of the passage of it between the sounds.

He didn’t know what the sounds meant, either, but they soothed a perpetual, unidentifiable ache. They were soft and gentle and mournful like something he couldn’t remember, something from long ago.

And he was floating. Floating. Floating….

* * *

  
“Ianto, sweetheart, are you alright?”

“ Oi! You alive in there? Earth to Ianto Jones. We’re out of coffee!”

Ianto blinked. His fingers were wrapped tightly around his warm mug and he was settled comfortably in a chair in the conference room. He shook his head slightly and glared at Owen.

“Told you I’d get his attention!” Owen snickered

Ianto rolled his eyes. “Sorry. Just drifted off a bit. What were you saying?”

“Well,” Tosh said, offering him a sympathetic smile, “according to the news agencies, the Prime Minister just shot the President of the United States. And then the Prime Minister’s wife shot _him_. Not that we have jurisdiction, but I think we should keep an eye on it, just in case.”

Owen raised both of his eyebrows. “Sure it isn’t just a hoax, a publicity stunt? One of those comedic parody things on the telly?”

“I cross-referenced it with over ten different sources. The BBC, the American stations, everywhere, even foreign agencies like Xinhua, Al Jazeera, Kathimerini, and Pajhwok.” She typed furiously on her laptop and images from various websites began to appear on the overhead. “The blogosphere and the social networking sites are entirely incapacitated with the onslaught of op-ed articles and responses. The Huffington Post, WordPress, Livejournal, Twitter, Facebook, everything! It’s too intricate, too complex, to be a hoax.”

“He _did_ send us to the Himalayas on a wild goose chase,” Gwen agreed, nodding. “I want to know what his motives were, who he was, and how he got here. It’s like he just appeared out of nowhere. It may be nothing, but….”

“Torchwood doesn’t believe in coincidences,” Ianto finished. “Right. I’ll run a few background checks on him, see if UNIT has any information. Shall I go order us lunch first?”


End file.
